Damned If She Do
by Calla Mae
Summary: What if Mycroft hired a woman to follow Sherlock, to keep him safe? How would Sherlock react when he discovered she'd been watching him for years and he hadn't known? And what happens when she has a past he can't deduce; how mad would it drive him to not know who she was? And how would Sherlock handle a woman more broken than himself? Sherlock x OC
1. She damned if she do

_Three Years Ago_

Mycroft Holmes looked at the young woman sitting across from him, glancing her over briefly yet thoroughly enough to notice her faded jeans and plain sweater, her pulled back hair, the dusting of freckles over her nose, her clean face made to look plain and normal; this was a woman who knew how to go unnoticed. And that made her ideal for what he needed. "I assume you read the file," he stated, clasping his hands together as he watched her closely.

Her dark eyes stared back at him blankly, her face void of any feeling. "Sherlock Holmes," she said, her voice light and sweet, "I'm guessing you don't want me to kill him?"

He nearly smirked at the oddity of hearing murder pass so casually from such a pretty girl. She truly was lovely, with her unreadable dark eyes, her even darker hair, her young face that could disarm even the hardest of men with a quirk of her pouty lips; she was the perfect weapon. "Quite the opposite actually," he informed her with a quick smile. "My brother has decided to use his mind to solve crimes, and that has put him in many," he paused thinking of an adequate word, "situations," he said, the proof of his irritations in his sigh. "I would like you to make sure none of them go awry."

He watched as she thought, taking several seconds before her dark eyes returned to his. "You want me to follow him, keep him safe," she said though it was more a question, his only answer was a cocked brow. "And if he isn't?"

"Ensure that he is," he told her, seeing in her eyes she understood the implication and was ready to agree. "You have a limit," he warned. "Two kills a year, there must be a direct tie to Sherlock and they must be of natural causes. Should you exceed it," he said watching her spine straighten as she tensed – the first movement beside her eyes that he noticed, in fact she had previously been entirely still – "well," he said with a smile, "I do not need to tell you the consequence." He was right, there was no need, the proof was in her erect back and clenched hands that she knew very well what would fall on her; she feared it.

He stood and opened the door for her, watching the stiff way in which she got to her feet. "Do not underestimate him, he hardly misses anything," Mycroft said before she left. "And Alice," he said waiting until her eyes were on his once more, "he mustn't know you are watching him."

...

"Alice," Mycroft greeted when she walked into his dining room, taking the seat beside him as she did every Monday evening. "You look lovely, as usual," he told her as he unfolded his napkin and draped it over his lap. He noticed that even though she wore a dress, a rather nice black dress that heels would have suited, she always wore flats; she was prepared to run, no matter the day or time, she was constantly ready.

She immediately reached for the glass of wine one of his servants poured her. "Thank you," she said as uninterested as he had been when he'd complimented her.

They ate quietly for several long moments, hearing nothing more than sound of their forks and knives on plates before Mycroft spoke. "How is he?" he asked, his eyes on his plate as he cut his steak.

She looked away from him dully, neither sentiment nor feelings were welcomed words in the Holmes vocabulary. "He is looking for a flatmate though he continues to frighten away everyone interested," she answered, drinking more of her wine than eating.

"At least eat your vegetables."

Her eyes were surprised when she turned to him though he wasn't paying her any mind. With a heavy sigh she set down her glass and complied.

He dabbed the napkin around his mouth, setting it on the table when he was finished and letting the maid take their dishes and refill her wine before he set a file in front of her.

She glanced through it taking note of the name, occupation, current residence as well as family history. "Yes, John Watson had a meeting with Sherlock, he's viewing the flat tomorrow." She closed the file and looked at Mycroft. "Is he a threat?"

Mycroft smiled though he sighed. "No, not at the moment. If all goes well tomorrow perhaps you will also be watching him." He stared at her now irritated eyes, knowing she found his brother annoying and difficult – and depending on the day quite stupid, for all his intelligence. "You will be getting a raise of course," he assured her though he knew unlike many others it would not appease her.

Nor was he wrong, she downed her fourth glass of wine in a single gulp before turning unhappy brown eyes on him. "What is it you're wanting me to do?" she asked knowing there was always something.

He sat back, grinning slightly, before folding his hands over his middle. "I want to know more about John Watson," he answered.

Alice looked down at Dr. Watson's closed file briefly. "How would you like me to get his files from his therapist."

Mycroft smiled, always pleased she could think for herself; as Sherlock would say, it was dull having to explain everything. But there were some things Alice needed to be told, this was one of them. "After you leave here you will break into her office, unnoticeably," he added to ensure she would take the utmost care, "and take her notes on him." He watched her face nearly seeing the disappointment in her that there would be no contact, no threatening with violence or death; she still had so very much to learn.

He stood as she did. "Always a pleasure, Alice," he said kissing her cheek lightly before watching her as she left. Mycroft woke the next morning to see the journal Emma Thompson kept on John Watson sitting on his nightstand, and he smiled momentarily as he reached for it.

* * *

**_So I have had a lot of ideas for Sherlock stories that I never actually tried writing and this is my first one, so please go easy on me. There's a lot unknown about Alice and it will remain that way, with little hints about who she is, until the boys figure it out. And that will also be when I say where I got the idea for the story because it's kind of a give away. Next chapter will be more her POV through A Study in Pink, and you will see that she is rather intelligent herself. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter even though there's still so much left unsaid, and I hope you will continue reading; and reviews are always helpful in finding inspiration to continue as well as to know what I need to work on. Thank you._**


	2. She damned if she don't

Alice sat by a window watching Sherlock, followed by John, as they left the flat and hailed a taxi. She looked closely at the jacket he wore before turning to her computer and activating tracker 3. On the cameras she'd set up years ago Mrs. Hudson walked down the stairs of 221 Baker Street and into her part of the townhome; Alice muted the television, having no need to watch or listen to the place now that Sherlock had left – and she typed a command on her computer that programmed the cameras to alert her to any movement. She put on her headphones before reaching for a cigarette, sighing when she lit it and breathed in.

For three years she had been listening to Sherlock through the tracking devices, special government chips she'd stolen that included audio; and what had once impressed her now bored and irritated her to no extent. And so she only half listened as he proved to John his deducing skills, rolling her eyes at the end of it at John's exclamation.

She watched the blip on the map that was Sherlock as they exited the taxi and walked to a building, hearing Sally greet him as she always did with name of "freak." Alice removed her headphones and studied the television, seeing Mrs. Hudson was sitting on her couch watching a show. Sherlock was at a crime scene surrounded by people with guns, he'd be safe enough if she left for five minutes and so she did. She never cared for the cases he worked on, they weren't much fun to think about when he always blurted out the answer first ruining the puzzle. And so she took the time to cut across the street and sneak into Sherlock's home, having memorized every place in the floor that made noise and tiptoed around it, before reaching the extra room that John would move in to. She quickly removed all of the cameras she'd placed on the chance John would stumble upon one when he moved in.

She was sitting in her apartment with another cigarette held between her lips in five minutes flat.

"There wasn't a case," was what she heard Lestrade say when she put the headphones back on. "There was never any suitcase."

"Suitcase, did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" Sherlock yelled, his voice frantic with excitement. She listened closer, knowing if the case wasn't there he'd go looking for it, and she waited for him to say why it was important because no one else would get it and say it themselves.

"They take the poison themselves, they chew swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs even you lot couldn't miss them," he said not realizing he'd insulted them; not even when Lestrade said something sarcastically that she didn't quite catch because Sherlock had gone down the stairs. "It's murder, all of them."

That was all she needed to know. She grabbed her phone and texted Mycroft. "He's leaving, he won't take John," she texted, knowing he'd send for John to be picked up so he could talk to him.

"Thank you, Alice," Mycroft's text read.

She transferred the map on her computer to her phone so she could follow Sherlock as he searched for the suitcase, knowing the chance he'd run into the killer was very slim at the moment but her job was to ensure his safety; she figured the killer probably dumped the case the moment he realized he had it – an estimate that would have made Sherlock pause momentarily at her having come to the conclusion herself.

She'd just pulled on her jacket when she got another text from Mycroft. "Can you leave Sherlock and come by a moment?" it read. She sighed before telling him she'd be there shortly, driving to the area Sherlock was near and circling it finding no one particularly suspicious before she drove to the location Mycroft had given her. She parked outside of the warehouse and headed inside, checking the cell phone she used that sent her the texts Sherlock gave and received.

"Baker Street. Come at once if convenient," it read. She didn't need to read who the text was for, she watched as John put his cell back in his pocket.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft asked, Alice seeing he was obviously growing frustrated.

"I could be wrong," John started lowly, Alice almost not hearing him from where she'd stopped, "but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be," Mycroft said, his voice and face pleasant enough to anyone who didn't know him. "If you do happen to move into," he said pulling out the therapist's journal, "two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way," he finished snapping the book shut and putting it back in his pocket.

Alice waited quietly, impatiently, watching her phone to see where Sherlock was and listening to her hearing device to make sure no one was with him; completely missing what Mycroft and John were saying.

"Information, nothing indiscreet, nothing you would feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to," she heard Mycroft say. Mycroft saw the hesitation on John's face, the suspicion. "I already have someone surveillancing him around the clock," he explained, looking to the woman standing a small distance behind John.

John turned confusedly to see a pretty young woman standing where one hadn't been before. He watched as she stepped closer and stopped beside him, looking at him briefly before turning to back to Mycroft. "Where did she?" he started.

"She's very good at what she does," Mycroft answered. "If she does not want to be noticed," he offered a small lift of his shoulders, "then she won't be. But I need you for more," he paused reaching for the word, "personal information, instead of simply knowing where he is."

"Why?" John asked.

"I worry about him," Mycroft told him, "constantly."

John nodded, not believing the man for a second. "That's very nice of you."

Mycroft smiled though his eyes were highly unamused. "But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern would go unmentioned," he said tapping his umbrella on the ground. "We have what you might call, a difficult relationship."

John's phone beeped again, alerting a new text, the same time that Alice's gave a short concise buzz. John looked at her curiously as she pulled out a cell phone, something he found odd considering she was already holding one in her right hand.

"If inconvenient come anyway."

John had an inkling that she'd just read what Sherlock had sent him, which was a gross invasion of privacy and it very much put him off.

"Would you like to go, Alice?" Mycroft asked, his voice light and a smile on his face, but eyes hard and irritated.

She turned her own stern eyes to him. "He's looking for something a serial killer once had in his possession, his heart rate's normal and he's not speaking to anyone so I assume he's in no pressing danger. But without a visual that is only a guess. Can you sit comfortably with only a guess?"

John watched her with his brows raised, her words having been said quickly and smartly; and he had thought then that she really was very good at what she did.

Mycroft gave her a curt smile. "Very well," he agreed, his mouth turned up looking more like a grimace.

She nodded before turning, but stopped and looked back to John. "Make no mention of me," she told him firmly, watching as he opened his mouth to refuse. "Should you continue to stay with Sherlock and find it necessary that he know of me then you can introduce us. You both may ask me any question you like until you're completely satisfied," she said quieting him. "This is a deal Dr. Watson," she informed him, seeing the refusal still in his eyes. "Should you tell him of me before I give the okay then it is off and I will tell neither of you anything. Are we clear?"

He pursed his lips unhappily, thinking over what she'd said before he reluctantly nodded.

She smiled at him pleased before turning and walking back to her car. Knowing enough about John Watson from one day to know he wouldn't agree to Mycroft. And Mycroft smiled lightly knowing her well enough that just because they asked didn't mean she'd answer.

…

Alice sat outside of the small restaurant in her car, half listening to Sherlock and John as they talked. "Who do we trust even though we don't know them, who passes unnoticed wherever they go, who hunts in the middle of the crowd?" she texted Mycroft.

It's what Sherlock had asked aloud as he thought, something he didn't have the answer to surprisingly. She sat looking around at everyone on the street wondering who it could be. Her first guess had been a mailman, but then that left the abducting part and so she gave that one up. And so she thought of how a man could take someone in broad daylight in crowded street and no one be the wiser; and then she realized that the abducted person might not know either, until it was too late. Which left a taxi driver.

She looked down when her phone buzzed. "You know I don't enjoy riddles," was what Mycroft wrote back, making her smile. She was just about to text back when she heard something that caught her attention from Sherlock.

"Look across the street, taxi. Nobody getting in nobody getting out," he said. "Why a taxi, oh that's clever," he said moments later when he understood, until he lost it. "Is that clever, why is it clever?"

She rolled her eyes at him, it having not taken her that long. She figured Sherlock was giving the killer too much credit, thinking he was a bigger man than a nobody driver. The moment Sherlock grabbed his jacket and stepped out of the door she had Mycroft's name up on her phone to call him, preparing to tell him she might over exceed her limit of kills this year and what he'd like her to do. Until the cab drove away and Sherlock started running.

She growled a sigh when he figured out how to catch up to the taxi and she'd had to make the decision herself; she slowly followed after the cab acting like any other normal driver, letting two cars ahead of her to not tip the driver off. They just narrowly missed the driver and John turned and saw the woman Alice in a car following behind it. "No this way," Sherlock told him, and John tore his eyes from her car and followed him.

There were roads closed, detours, pedestrian walks; at this rate the two wouldn't catch up if they didn't hurry and catching murderers wasn't her job so they needed to pick up the pace if they wanted the guy behind bars. Until finally, after another close encounter, Sherlock finally jumped in front of the cab forcing the driver to stop.

Instead of calling Mycroft like she knew she should, she pulled her gun and held it in case the driver tried anything. And then Sherlock opened the back of the cab and looked at the passenger, expecting him to be the killer. "You have got to be kidding me," she muttered as Sherlock walked away.

She reholstered her gun and called Mycroft not even giving him the chance to say hello before she started talking. "The murderer's the cab driver, Sherlock thought it was the guy in the back. Should I give him a hint?" she demanded the moment she heard the click that meant he'd answered.

She heard the breath Mycroft exhaled as he smiled. "Let him figure it out, Alice," he told her, chuckling lightly at her growl of exasperation.

"Fine," she ground out through clenched teeth, glaring at John as he passed by her car; the two running from a security officer who the American had pointed at them to.

"Oh and Alice," Mycroft said catching her before she hung up, "you have reached your limit."

She stilled at his reminder, realizing he wouldn't have wanted her to kill the cab driver.

"I have no authority in protecting you should you surpass it, please do try not to," he said, his voice low and almost caring.

She was quiet for many long seconds, it taking Mycroft saying her name before she answered. "I won't, Mycroft," she swore, though they both her word wasn't strong enough to stand against the wind; at least not when it came to that.

He sighed before he spoke again. "I will see you Monday," he told her. "Do take care, Alice."

Even after he'd hung up she still held the phone to her ear, losing all sense of security Mycroft had given her when he'd taken her in a few years before. Finally she lowered the phone and drove back to her flat, sitting on the sofa as she turned on the television to see Sherlock and John talking to Lestrade about a drug bust. It didn't touch her that they might find her cameras – which she'd hidden so not even Sherlock would find them so there was no real worry there – and she didn't care that Sherlock, her charge, might be facing arrest of some sort of form. None of that fazed her. Instead she sat staring blankly at the screen, seeing nothing but the darkness and feeling nothing but the pain that came with being put in the cage. Listening to Sherlock talking, watching his arrogant face as he humiliated and demeaned the others for not being as smart as him, she didn't think he was worth the torture. The problem she was now faced with, hearing Mrs. Hudson tell Sherlock there was a taxi he hadn't called for asking for him, was whether or not Mycroft was worth it.

* * *

**_Thank you guys so much for the favorites and follows and reviews, they all really mean a lot to me. So this was pretty much the first episode, and not much is still known about her but that's kind of how she is as a person. I will say this though, her and Sherlock will meet next chapter. I hope I'm keeping everyone in character, I'm trying very hard to; so I guess let me know what you thought so I know what needs fixing and if anything needs to be more developed. Thanks again._**


	3. if history hang hang hangs her well

John saw Alice again four days later, sitting in a cafe with a bluetooth in her ear, her cellphone in hand, switching between drinking her coffee and smoking her cigarette. He marched up to her table and sat across from her, seeing from her phone that she was monitoring not only Sherlock's whereabouts but also his own.

"You planted a tracker on me?" was the first thing he asked, though it hadn't been what he'd originally planned.

She looked at him blandly, listening to Sherlock in her ear and having been watching John on her phone. "Of course," she answered, tapping her fag on the ashtray, "I'm being paid to keep you safe now as well."

He stared hard at her, noticing her pulled back hair revealing her pretty face and that he could see down her shirt before he looked back to her brown eyes. "Where is it?" he demanded, causing her to raise a brow.

"Why would I tell you that, Dr Watson?" she asked condescendingly, a smirk curling the corner of her mouth.

He was left watching her without anything to say, knowing she knew he'd take the chip out. "Come by at four," he said suddenly, uneasy about the calm still way she sat blinking at him. "I'll make sure Sherlock is there and then we can introduce you." He sat watching her, seeing in her eyes she was contemplating it.

She nodded, finding no other way around it. "Fine," she said before taking a long drag and exhaling.

His brows furrowed at how easy that was. "Alright," he said slapping his hand on the table before leaving.

Alice looked after him amusedly, liking Dr Watson more than she did Sherlock. After he disappeared around a corner she pulled out her other phone and texted Mycroft: "John's insisting Sherlock know of me, anything you want me to exclude?"

When a minute passed she knew he was contemplating what information his brother was capable of pertaining. "Nothing that alludes to who you are and who you worked for previously."

It was what she knew he'd say, what he always said; no one was to know her previous occupation, knowledge that may prove dangerous. But it made what would come at four that much more difficult.

...

"Hello dear," Mrs Hudson greeted when she rang the bell. Alice smiled at her before telling her she was meeting with Dr Watson and Sherlock. "Yoohoo, I have your guest," she said opening their door.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," John said standing and offering Alice his hand to shake.

"She's very pretty," Mrs Hudson whispered with a conspiritory smile.

John looked at her consternated. "Thank you Mrs Hudson," he repeated, his tone curt showing his bafflement.

She gave him a look before turning to the young woman. "Would you like some tea?" she asked politely.

"If it isn't too much to ask," Alice answered as nicely as she was capable. She took a seat on their sofa before looking to Sherlock, who was staring at her with his hands folded beneath his chin. He was reading her, every fabric in her clothing, the way she wore her clothes, the type of clothes she wore, the state of her fingernails; everything about her that let him know who she was.

And she wasn't wrong. He knew from her simple jeans and long sleeved shirt and boots that she did not want to be noticed, as well as from the way she wore next to no make up that she did not care for appearances or that she knew how attractive her face was though he thought was the former given her clothes. The lines around her mouth meant she was a smoker, her face was youthful and otherwise unlined therefore it had to be smoker. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her back held strait - impeccable posture - her eyes staring into his unfazed. This was a woman who knew how to bluff, as young as she was and as pretty as she was, she wasn't above using her body to get what she wanted.

"Why are you introducing me to an addict?" he asked suddenly, only moments from when she'd first taken a seat.

John paused as he sat down, looking first at Sherlock and then at Alice, before he planted himself in the chair. He thought of how to respond, really knowing nothing about her, and decided to skip that question. "This is Alice," he offered, watching as she thanked Mrs Hudson for her tea. "Your brother hired her to keep tabs on you."

Sherlock's brow quivered as he fought not to show his surprise as he stared at her placid face; there was no smugness, no gloating, she looked as though she couldn't care less. "I've never her before, she must be new," he said refusing to acknowledge she was in the room - trying for some kind of response.

"Well actually," John started, looking between the two as they seemed to be carrying on a very intense staring match, "she's been trailing you for," he trailed off realizing he didn't know how long she had been watching him, and so he looked to her waiting for her to fill in the number.

"Three years," she answered, looking over at John as he nearly spit in his tea. Even Sherlock was staring at her shocked, and still her face showed no emotion.

Sherlock searched her face for any recognition, knowing he must have seen her more than once in the past three years if what she said was true. "That is simply not possible, Ms," he trailed off hoping for a last name.

"Carroll," she told him, and he still didn't recognize her, "and it is very much possible Sherlock Holmes."

He stared hard at her, looking for a bluff, looking for a lie, something on her otherwise completely blank face. There was no emotion in her eyes, as though she'd entirely turned them off if that were at all possible; and yet there had been something along the lines of kindness when she'd smiled at Mrs Hudson. He couldn't read her, not entirely, and it made him fidgit in his seat.

John, however, was thinking of something else; something that had been bothering him for days. "Where were you the night Sherlock was with that serial killer?"

She turned to John with a brow raised, a perfectly poised expression for John to know she wanted him to say more though Sherlock saw no other look on her face.

He could nearly feel the weight of her eyes on his face, as blank as they were, and it made him quite uncomfortable. "You had to know it would be dangerous," he explained further, seeing Sherlock had leaned forward to better see her.

"I did," she said simply.

John processed that a moment, pursing his lips at how much he didn't like that she'd done nothing. "If I hadn't seen where the phone was he could've been dead, I can't expect his brother would have been too pleased." He waited for her to say something, though he was greatly offput when she smiled.

"You mean if the phone's signal hadn't randomly been picked up by a cell tower even though it was standing idle?" she questioned pleasantly.

John opened his mouth in surprise, not fully understanding. "How did, I don't," he stuttered before she interrupted him.

Sherlock watched as she turned away from John and smoothed out her pants before clasping her hands together once more; realizing her body hadn't been moving before, and now wasn't again. She was very very still; a most uncommon thing for people.

"I hacked into the cell tower the phone was in the vicinity of and targeted that specific phone which allowed the tracking site to pick up the information as to where it was," she answered calmly, knowing how easy it would be for Sherlock to unravel who she was if she said the wrong thing.

It took John a moment before he fully understood that she had infact alerted him to where Sherlock was so that he could save him. "Why didn't you go? You have a tracker on him, you knew where he was?"

"What?" Sherlock asked looking away from Alice for the first time since she'd taken a seat.

"Yes," John answered turning to him, "she also receives every text sent to and from your phone," he said watching Sherlock's eyes widen momentarily in surprise.

"Yours too Dr Watson," she said softly causing them both to look to her - though John waiting to be told why she hadn't taken care of the killer herself. That had been the question Alice didn't want to be asked, Sherlock might very well see she was lying if he was looking close enough at her, that or hear it in her voice; and she couldn't tell the truth. Nor could she hesitate for longer than an average of two seconds - Mycroft had her well versed in the ways of Sherlock should they ever meet. "And there are repercussions for killing a person even if it is for Sherlock Holmes," she answered, allowing snideness to enter her voice to make it seem as though she did not believe Sherlock was as grand a person as he seemed to think he was.

The silence in the room was cut short by the sound of a phone buzzing. Sherlock watched as she looked at her phone, her lips twitching as though to smile before she stood. "Well, I must be leaving," she said, John springing to his feet.

"You said we can ask anything we like, we're not finished," he said, having so many more questions now like how she hacked into a phone tower.

She returned her phone back to her pocket and moved to the door. "We can continue our conversation later," she said tying her coat around her.

"You received a text, one that brought an involuntary smile to your face, and now moments later are leaving, that would indicate the person means something to you. A family member, a lover, your boss? Where are you going Alice Carroll?"

Alice turned to Sherlock to see his eyes narrowed as he stared up at her, her mouth smiled though her eyes were irritated at being questioned. "It's Monday," she answered, watching both Sherlock and John look at her waiting for more - like synchronized little monkeys. "I'm having dinner with Mycroft."

That surprised them both. "How comfortable are you with Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, not liking that she was here because of his brother; nor did he like that she was having dinner with him, he rarely invited anyone to his home for dinner - she meant something to him.

She sighed having been ready to leave before she'd even come and now she was being stalled by more questions. "Comfortable enough I call him Mycroft I suppose," she said before walking down the stairs.

"Where do you live?" John called, not wanting her to leave without a means of finding her.

"Across the street," she answered, her voice quieter.

Sherlock was on his feet and moving to the window, looking to see there were flats across the street as well; having known there were but not that she'd been occupying one. "It's not possible you've lived across from me for three years," he yelled furiously, knowing he couldn't have not seen her in all that time.

"It is," she called up, standing by the door waiting for his last question.

"How?" he demanded as she'd known he would; his arrogance was more than predictable.

She opened the door smiling. "Because I am better than you Sherlock Holmes."

He turned to the stairs violently, ready to prove how wrong she was, when he heard the door close. He looked down at the street to see her dark head and the glowing embers of a cigarette newly lit in her hand. "Sherlock?" John asked quietly, seeing his hands were curled into fists.

"It isn't possible," he ground out before throwing himself down on the couch, feeling on his shoulders the warmth where she had previously been sitting. He would spend the next several hours in silence going over every instant when he could have seen her, taken note of her because she was familiar. But she proved to be right. When it came to going unnoticed, she was far better than him.


	4. her memory won't

Alice sat across from Mycroft as they ate, him having decided to dine out. If it weren't for the wine that he was paying for she would have minded having to change into a dress, as it were she drank contentedly from her third glass.

"You really should slow down," he commented offhandedly, though a look at his eyes and she knew it was not a suggestion.

She gave a strained smile, more tired now that she watching two men; it didn't help that Sherlock slept for only a few hours before going on his computer or pacing - which meant she only slept for a few hours before she woke with him. "We aren't here to discuss my dietary habits, are we?" she asked, trying to be pleasant for his sake.

"No," he said returning her smile as tired as she, "but I am paying for your dish so you could be kind enough to eat it."

"Well you're paying for the wine as well," she said, an almost happy smile curling on her mouth.

Mycroft nodded and waited for her to pick up her fork before he spoke next. "How is he?" he asked disinterested.

"He's well enough. Seems to really like Dr Watson."

He hummed lowly before taking a drink of his own wine. "Dr Watson will be good for him," he commented, knowing from her short answers she was exhausted - and knowing even more she wouldn't say she was.

Alice couldn't care less about Dr Watson, at least in that moment. She'd been waiting for the right time to bring up a concern of hers, though there was no right time; she could already see the way Mycroft's eyes would freeze and his spine would straighten. "He knows about Moriarty," she said softly before she lost the nerve, reaching for her wine glass only for Mycroft to pull it away.

"How?" he demanded, all pretences of courtesy gone. Instead of answering immediately as he wanted she instead reached for his wine glass, and yet again he grabbed it before she did. "Don't make me ask again, Alice."

She took a sharp breath before meeting his hard stare. "The cabbie," she answered. "He was working under Moriarty's orders."

He was quiet for several long moments, process what she'd told him and the repercussions it would have. "It is nothing to worry about for the moment," he said finally, stoically composing himself before he slid her glass toward her.

She stared at him in disbelief, knowing Moriarty was the most dangerous man when it came to Sherlock. "I think Sherlock's being watched," she told him, having been waiting until she knew for sure.

"You think?"

"Yes," she answered, downing her glass. "It's a different person everytime, I can't be sure. But it's always Sherlock they're looking at, but even then it's only for a moment and they go about their business." She waited for him to say something, to say what she was thinking - that Moriarty knew of her and his men were trained specifically to go unnoticed by her. But Mycroft said nothing, and it infuriated her. "He was a mistake."

"Are you telling me how to run my affairs?" he asked, a warning in his tone.

She looked back at him shocked, knowing this was more troubling than Mycroft would admit. "You can't be serious."

"That will be all Alice, you may go," he said dismissing her.

"No," she said stubbornly, refusing to let it go.

"Alice," he hissed sitting forward, his eyes glinting dangerously.

She stared back at him completely lost. "Moriarty was a mistake," she said slowly, enunciating every word to cut him deep. "It will be Sherlock who pays the price. And as the person you hired to protect him I will be paying that price as well." She sat back in her chair waiting for him to do something, half expecting him to order her to leave, but he held his tongue - still refusing to talk about it. "It was a mistake," she said standing, "at least have the balls to admit it."

* * *

_A few weeks later_

"Sherlock," John said irritably, looking over at him as they walked along the street, "have you even heard a word I've said?"

Sherlock was paying him no mind, instead he was looking over his shoulder at a dark car; or rather, he was looking at the woman sitting in the driver's seat smoking a cigarette – always smoking. Alice was close enough that he saw her smirk at his noticing her, something that sent a fire of rage through him. No matter how he turned it she'd gotten the better of him for three years, and he hadn't even known. "We need to find those trackers," he said through clenched teeth as he faced forward, feeling her eyes crawling beneath his skin.

John looked at him confusedly before looking to see what Sherlock had, giving a short quiet laugh when Alice offering a short wave of her hand.

Sherlock took out his phone when it alerted him to a text, his mouth turning down in a hard scowl. "I will find them," he said as though it were a challenge, "and I'll burn them when I do."

"What?" John asked incredulous, wondering what Sherlock was talking about. He was about to ask when Sherlock received another text, one that made him laugh derisively as he started walking.

"That's what you think," he said staring at his phone, waiting for another text, leaving John to follow after him more confused than ever.

He nearly ran into Sherlock's back when he stopped suddenly at what the text read. "Oh shut up," he growled.

"I, I didn't say anything," John told him slowly, trying to piece together what was happening.

"Not you," Sherlock said sighing at John's nonunderstanding. "Wait," he said a second later when a thought came to him, "are there cameras in the flat?"

John stared after Sherlock as he walked away again. "Who are you talking to?" he asked as he followed, hearing Sherlock's phone receiving two texts before he spoke again.

"I don't need you're money," he said defensively, snorting at what the next one read. "What are you going to do, stop me?"

John turned to Alice's car, seeing she hadn't moved from where she was parked, and took out his phone to text her who Sherlock was talking to; and then he understood. "You're talking to Alice," he said making Sherlock turn to him.

"Of course I am, who else would I be talking to," he said as though John were an idiot.

John looked down at his phone when it beeped. "How long until his head explodes?" He laughed before looking over his shoulder at Alice, and then turning to see Sherlock staring hard at him.

"What did she say to you?" he asked suspiciously, not liking the way John had laughed.

He looked up at Sherlock and shrugged shaking his head. "Nothing," he offered innocently. "So where are we going?" he asked as Sherlock began walking again.

Sherlock put his phone away, seeing she'd had her fun. "To see Detective Lestrade," he answered shortly before raising his hand to hail a taxi.

Alice followed behind their taxi, giving up the pretence of stealth now that they knew she was following them, though she kept an eye about for anything offputting; which she rarely found, only a handful of occasions had she noticed anything. And it was not on that particular day that she'd see anything either.

Sherlock walked to the police building, looking behind him to see Alice pulling into a spot and waiting, before he went in. "You wait here," he told John before hanging his coat on a hook and entering Lestrade's office and shutting the door.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said surprised at seeing him.

He paused for a moment. "Hello," he greeted blandly before taking a seat opposite his desk. "What did you find on Alice Carroll?" he asked, straight to the point.

Lestrade sighed. "The name on her birth certificate is Alice Carroll, born in St. Thomas on July 1, 1988. And that's it," he admitted.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked barely giving him a chance to finish.

Greg looked at him not knowing why he was so interested in the woman. "I mean she has no previous criminal record. That's as far as I am allowed to go under my jurisdiction."

Sherlock squirmed in his seat knowing if the tracker was in his coat he had maybe five minutes before she came in here looking for him. "I asked you to look as deep as you could on her," he said hoping there would be more.

"And I did," he said cutting Sherlock off. "I looked deeper too," he informed him, earning himself a quizzical look from Sherlock. "What? I was interested."

Sherlock continued to stare at him, wondering why. "You saw her photograph," he said pretentiously.

Lestrade gave him a look before turning back to the notebook he'd kept on what he had found. "I got a look at some receipts. Wasn't much there just groceries and clothes and the occasional hardware store visit. She seems like an ordinary woman, Sherlock," he said having not much else he wanted to offer.

"She isn't," Sherlock told him, making Greg even more curious as to why he cared so much. "Did you find anything strange?" he asked, knowing there had to be something. He looked at the detective to see an almost guilty face. "You're not telling me something."

These were the times when he didn't like Sherlock the most, and he knew the man wouldn't leave until he knew. "The oldest date I could find was a little over four years ago, and at that time it was only her signature I found on the receipts," he told Sherlock, "she was using your brother's card."

His mind was moving a mile a minute, his mouth pressed against his folded hands. Mycroft had made her smile in a circumstance where she had been hiding every reaction - he meant a great deal to her. And Mycroft had texted her, which he only did when he couldn't talk and by all accounts he had been able to talk; he'd texted her because she preferred it - she meant something to him. She had dinner with him regularly and he allowed her to call him by his first name. Alice Carroll meant a great something to him. "She didn't exist until four years ago," he said.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock looked at him, seeing in his eyes he didn't know, and he'd had all the answers. "Alice Carroll is an alias," he explained, realizing he'd been stupid to miss it. "Alice In Wonderland written by Lewis Carroll."

"Maybe her parents just liked the book?" Lestrade posed as a question.

"No," Sherlock said excited now. "You told me her name, she had no middle name, and you told me when she was born and where she was born but you didn't tell me her parents' name. You didn't find them did you?" he asked nearly buzzing.

"I figured she'd been in an orphanage or something," Greg said shrugging as though he didn't buy it, though in fact he rather did.

"Oh come on," Sherlock scoffed knowing even he couldn't be that stupid, "you said yourself you couldn't find anything older than four years. Because she wasn't Alice Carroll four years ago, you have to see that."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said trying to stop him.

But he was on a roll. "You have to dig deeper, there has to be some way to find out who she was before."

"Sherlock!"

He stopped talking and looked at the detective waiting.

"I can't look any deeper," Lestrade told him, knowing he was saying more than he should but knowing Sherlock wouldn't let it rest if he didn't.

"Why?" he demanded, knowing Lestrade had to be the least bit interested.

"Because," he started sharply, "I got an email from National Security telling me nicely to stop looking into her. I'm sorry Sherlock, she's off limits."

It left Sherlock in a stupor wondering who she was. Though now he knew two things; Alice Carroll wasn't real, and the woman with the fake name used to work deep in the British government.


	5. there's been a perception of

"There's a man coming to visit you," Alice texted Sherlock, looking through a telescope at a man donning a turban trying to sneak into a window.

It was hardly five seconds before her phone gave short beep. "Who do you think it is?"

She stared hard at the man's dress before he slipped inside. "What ethnicity were the people who wanted you to find the diamond?"

Sherlock snorted concisely, not having told her anything about the case: which meant she'd been listening in. "I've got it, Alice Carroll," he texted back, using her full name everytime he spoke to her now that he knew it wasn't real.

She didn't listen to what Sherlock and the man said to one another, instead she grabbed her rifle, screwing on the silencer, before placing it through a small hole she'd drilled in her window years ago after Sherlock's first "visitor." Several minutes she watched the two scrapple, Sherlock losing and then gaining the upper hand before finally he knocked his opponent out – the moment he did he lunged for the window and looked over at her flat, seeing her standing with a sniper rifle aimed at him.

"So Alice Carroll used to be a sniper," he texted, looking back to her in the window – still having no real idea of who she used to be. He jumped back nearly falling over when a bullet struck the frame near the window, holding himself up on a chair as he caught the breath he'd lost. His phone beeped and he picked it up from where he dropped it to read, "Among other things." When he went back to the window she was gone from her own, her blinds pulled shut and her door opening as she ran across the street.

"Mrs Hudson," she greeted upon opening the door to find her about to go up the stairs.

"What on earth is he doing up there now?" she asked, the sound of crashing having worried her.

Alice tried for a kind smile. "An experiment," she told her making Mrs Hudson roll her eyes.

"Oh for heavens sake," she muttered before walking back to her part of the flat.

Alice waited until she closed the door before continuing up the stairs, Sherlock standing with his hands folded behind his back as he waited for her. He watched quietly as she grabbed the man's leg and began pulling him to the stairs, using more strength than her lithe body appeared to have. A smirk curled on his lips when she drug him down the stairs, hearing him hit each step harder than the next and knowing she was doing it purposefully. He helped her carry him to her car though, grabbing his shoulders before they tossed him in the trunk – hardly caring who saw when they both knew any reports would go nowhere if she were tied to it.

"Where do you want me to take him?" she asked leaning against the car.

He stared down at her, searching her face for anything telling. He couldn't look at her anymore without questions blazing of who she was. "Who are you, Alice Carroll?" he questioned lowly.

She rolled her eyes and moved to open her door. "Stop asking me that, Sherlock," she said as she did every time he asked.

"I would stop if you would simply answer me," he offered, watching as she turned to him with hard eyes.

"There is nothing simple about that question or the answer. Stop asking."

"Why?" he challenged. "Will I not like what I find?"

Her eyes darkened as she stared up at him. "What you will find is the wrong end of a gun, and more likely than not I will have the order to pull the trigger. Stop asking, Sherlock," she warned. He was quiet for a long several moments as he contemplated what she'd said, and in all honesty she thought he might disregard what she'd said.

He proved her wrong. "I'll text you the address," he told her quietly, signaling the end of that particular conversation – at least for the time being, and it greatly relieved her.

She drove to the building Sherlock told her of before dumping the still unconscious man outside of it and getting back in her car. "We have a problem," she said the moment Mycroft answered his phone.

"Hello to you too, Alice," Mycroft said distractedly. "What is it now?"

She flipped on her blinker and eased into traffic. "Your brother is adamant in finding me out. It would be best to tell him outright than for his searching to become noticed," she said knowing Mycroft was against it; he knew the risks of his brother knowing.

"I suppose there isn't a way around this?" he asked hoping she would have a way and knowing his brother wouldn't let it go.

She sighed. "Not since he had Detective Lestrade look into me, figuring out I didn't exist four years as well the good detective receiving an email from National Security. Your brother's too smart for his own good."

"If I didn't know any better I would say you've warmed up to him," he said almost teasing.

It made her smile in spite of herself. "Warmed up as in I don't wish him dead, then sure," she answered, refusing to admit that on occasion she actually quite liked Sherlock Holmes, and forcing Mycroft into answering her previous question.

He was quiet many minutes as he thought, knowing she was right and wishing she weren't. "Tell him what you believe will satisfy his curiosity enough to stop looking into you without compromising yourself," he told her, hearing her furious sigh before the dial tone sounded in his ear.

Alice drove angrily, cutting people off, switching lanes to manoeuvre around other cars when she could so that she could finally be at her flat and sit down so she could think. By the time she finally made it to her temporary home she'd already inhaled three fags and had just lit her fourth and sat down when her phone beeped.

"We're going to the bank. S"

Sherlock stood outside the flat with John waiting for her to come out so that she would follow behind them, him refusing to take up her offer of giving them a ride even though John had tried to agree. "Did you tell her we were leaving?" John asked after a few minutes.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing as he stared up at her window.

"Perhaps she, forgot something," he said unconvincingly; Alice didn't forget anything, she was precise, exact - they both knew it. John looked over at him when his phone beeped. "What'd she say?"

Sherlock stared at his phone confusedly before pocketing it. "She isn't coming," he said simply. "Taxi." Something was wrong, at least with her; she'd asked if he thought they'd be in danger - she wouldn't be following them. Sherlock knew that meant something wasn't right, now he wanted to know what and he had a guess she'd spoken with Mycroft about him. Something was bothering him about what she'd said, knowing who she was would get him killed - and she'd have the orders to kill him. There was something about her, her stillness, her ability to hide every emotion and reaction, her precision at doing what she was told: if given the order to kill him, Sherlock knew she would obey. And it made the need to know who she was grow rampant in his never-resting mind.

She pulled up Sherlock and John's trackers on her computer and watched their little dots on the map as they went to, not just a bank, an investment bank. Curious, despite her now aching head, she hacked into Sherlock's email and read one he received not even fifteen minutes previous. While she pondered the sender, a man named Sebastian Wilkes, her phone beeped.

"We went to university together. As I'm sure you read in the email he has a job for me, no need to look into him. S"

It didn't stop her though, she regretted now not going with them: but after a few minutes she settled back and nursed her cigarette satisfied they wouldn't find any trouble. She was left with time to think of what she was supposed to tell Sherlock, what both he and John were allowed to know without it posing a threat and what they could both stomach when they had to face her everyday.

"We went to Uni together," she heard a loud new voice say, his voice smug and arrogant. "This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock said quietly, if he were anyone else it might be considered humble.

But the other guy wasn't through, and she could picture the smirk on his face. "He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"Yes," John said, "I've seen him do it."

Alice contemplated muting her computer, feeling her hands shaking as she imagined the look on his ugly face when she cut into him. She slammed into awareness and cleared her mind of everything, reaching for her fifth cigarette and settling back feeling her hands as they shook.

"Go on enlighten me," was what she heard next, forcing every thought to disappear from her mind as she sat emotionless, "two trips a month flying all the way around the world, quite right. How could you tell? Don't tell me, there's a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan."

She didn't know what infuriated her more, this man or that John had laughed. Either way she slammed her computer closed before inhaling, realizing she had finished it and lit yet another. She pulled the trackers up on her phone, leaving her Bluetooth on the table so she wouldn't hear. Mindnumbingly empty, that's what she made herself: tossing out every thought that came to her as she stared at the blank canvas of her ceiling. Her reverie was broken when her phone beeped and she picked it up to find it was an hour later, and Sherlock had sent her address.

This time she left with them, not knowing what they were up to though Sherlock sent her another text that answered that particular question. "Edward Van Coon, a message was sent to him last night at the bank. Do you know these symbols?" She opened the file he sent to see spray painted Chinese numbers on a wall. Mycroft often told her that her job was not to help Sherlock in any way on his cases, that would only encourage him. "No clue," she sent back, lying in case he didn't already know.

They had already found a way to get buzzed in when she arrived, and Sherlock texted her the moment he saw her car. "Make yourself useful and climb up to meet me."

She stared at her phone irritated before grabbing a pair of gloves and forcing herself of the car. He waved down at her amused, not being able to see her clearly but knowing she was not happy. He watched as she stared up at the building, noting from the way her head gradually moved up that she was charting the best path to him: and he smiled when she began, looking like a streetclothed acrobat as she reached for the rail above her and flipped herself onto the balcony. It was hardly half a minute before she was on the deck below him; seeing that it was very possible for a skilled person to climb up without trouble. "Stay there," he told her before climbing over his side and jumping down beside her.

"Who's place was that?" she asked when he righted himself.

"The woman that just moved in," he answered before reaching out to test if the door to inside was unlocked - hoping people's stupidity and their false sense of security would mean that it was. "Don't touch anything," he told her holding aside the drapes for her to step through before following her, paying her eye roll no mind as he looked about the room. She stood by the balcony door as he walked in, taking in everything Van Coon owned as he moved through the flat: searching for clues.

The bell buzzed. "Sherlock," John's voice said over the com. "Sherlock are you okay?"

She looked around uninterested, waiting to leave, and noticing a book with Chinese symbols on it, one that Sherlock had passed by - he obviously hadn't known they were numbers, though she knew he'd figure it out soon enough.

"Yeah anytime you feel like letting me," John said irritably, ringing the bell a few more times hoping to annoy him.

Alice reached for her gun when she heard a door being forced open, releasing her hold on it when she saw it was only Sherlock still searching. Though she followed behind him in case there were someone there, seeing this was obviously not just Sherlock snooping as he normally did. The proof of that lay in the bed with a gun at his side and bullet in his head.


	6. sweet hearts passing through

"Did you touch anything?" Sherlock asked looking down at her.

Alice raised her hands to show him her black gloves making him nod pleased. She strained her ears to hear any faint noises, peeking into the closet and the bathroom before stepping out of the room, not paying Sherlock attention as he called Lestrade. She buzzed John in before cracking the door so he could actually come up, still peering around corners in case the killer was still there.

"Thank you," John said rudely when he came through the door, stopping awkwardly when he saw Alice's face instead of Sherlock's. "Why are you here?" he asked, his voice quieter and more polite.

She jerked a thumb behind her to Sherlock, hearing John make a noise when he saw Van Coon's body. Sherlock hung up on Lestrade before going into the main room where Alice had wandered to, seeing her kneeling on the floor with her scarf tied around her head covering her hair.

"What is she doing?" John asked when he saw her pull out tweezers and pick at something on the carpet.

The corner of his mouth curled. "Erasing her being here," he answered, watching as she retraced her steps quickly but precisely before standing with two strands of her hair on the balcony where she first came in. "See how difficult it is to get back down," he told her, looking down the street for the first police car. "Try to be quick. And don't listen in," he said before he stepped back inside. "I want to question you when you drive us back to the bank."

She watched him curiously as he went back inside, shaking her head at him before climbing over the railing; hearing John demand to know why he'd asked her to climb down when she could use the stairs. She was left for several minutes in her car after the police, not seeing Lestrade, itching to put her Bluetooth in her ear to know what was going on. But she watched their trackers and saw they'd gone nowhere, and were with police enforcement and relatively safe. So she waited.

Sherlock climbed into the passenger seat, leaving John to sit in the back. "Why do you think he killed himself?" he asked staring out of the windshield.

She didn't even bother to roll her eyes as she pulled into traffic. "I know he was murdered, Sherlock," she told him quietly.

"How?" John asked, wondering how she had possibly known. "It was staged pretty convincingly."

"It was staged horribly," she informed him, catching both his and Sherlock's complete attention. "He was lying straight back on the bed," she explained to their questioning looks.

John shrugged not understanding. "What does that prove?"

She looked over her shoulder before she switched lanes. "The killer didn't account for the force of the weapon firing, his head at least should have been turned to the side which it wasn't. No matter if he was standing or sitting his body would have recoiled from the force, he wouldn't be laying straight on the bed. Which leaves to question where the gun was on the floor in relation to where he was when he supposedly pulled the trigger." Her eyes were on the road ahead of her, slowing for a car pulling out, not noticing John's amazed look and Sherlock's impressed stare as he thought of everything she was saying.

"Where should the gun have been?" John asked slowly, barely able to process all she'd told them.

"Based on statistics it should've been in his hand. The muscles contract on death, the hand typically would clamp down on the gun. Saying it didn't, in order to be laying as he was he'd been sitting with the edge of the bed under his knees. Gun should have been on his lap or the bed. If you stood exactly where Mr Van Coon's feet were and dropped the gun on the floor it would hit and then roll and end up where you saw it."

"But you said he wasn't standing," John reminded her, still not fully following along.

Alice smirked as she rounded a corner. "Exactly. The killer was trying to create a suicide, he was the one standing," she answered contentedly, sounding more happy than the two had ever heard her before. "Besides the fact that left-handed people rarely ever shoot themselves with their right hand."

Sherlock smiled pleased at her having figured that out, seeing now how his brother could have taken a liking to her. "Brilliant," he mumbled, wondering how she figured it all out; knowing she did not use deductive reasoning.

"How," John started amazed, "how did you know all of that?"

She shrugged, the excitement from seeing a murder fading and realizing how close she was letting Sherlock to inside her mind. "The way his furniture was set up," she answered, not even addressing the rest of it.

Sherlock's eyes were searching as he stared at her face, taking in everything she'd said to the whiteness of her hands as she clenched the steering wheel. She knew it was staged by what was wrong, because she knew how to do it right. "Brilliant," he mumbled again, catching her eyes before turning away smiling. John stared at him astounded by his admitting she was smart, and that he didn't do something to prove he was smarter as he would in any other case. It completely befuddled him.

Alice pulled into a spot outside of the bank, surprised at how quiet Sherlock had been considering. He stepped out as John did, but he leaned back in the car to look at her. "You killed people for the government," he said softly so only she would hear, watching her face freeze before closing the door with a smile. It left John following after him confusedly, before the secretary told them Sebastian had gone out to lunch, which left them to walk back to Alice's car.

"What did you say to her?" John asked when they got outside to find she'd driven off.

Sherlock looked down the street without seeing her car anywhere, realizing she'd sped off the moment they'd gone inside – he was right. "Nothing."

…

They found Alice sitting stoically on their couch when they returned to the flat, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes staring straight ahead. Sherlock hung his coat and scarf before sitting in the chair to her left, John stood behind them wondering what was going on because he had so obviously missed something.

"You will not ask me that again," she said suddenly, not moving an inch.

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "I didn't need to ask," he said arrogantly. She moved faster than he could comprehend and she had his wrists locked in one hand and the other clenched around his jaw forcing him to look in her blazing dark eyes.

"You will _never_ associate me with the government again. For all intent and purposes I am Alice Carroll and I've never worked for them, is that clear," she hissed.

He stared at her infuriated face, seeing the half crazed look in her eye behind the cloud of rage. As much as he wanted to say no, to demand answers, her face offered no refusal. "Yes," he said as best he could beneath her hand. He rubbed his jaw when she released him, having not thought her small hands were that strong. John stood behind him breathless and almost afraid, having never seen Alice so angry and uncontrolled.

She sat quietly in the exact position as when they'd arrived, silent and uncommonly still. "My name isn't Alice Carroll," she said.

John waited barely breathing for Sherlock to snidely say they'd already figured that out, setting her off again. "Yes," was all Sherlock said, even him knowing it best to watch his words.

She sat quietly again, forcing them to wait for what she'd say next. "No more digging for information on me, what I tell you is all you can know," she said turning to Sherlock, proving she knew he'd talked to Lestrade about her. "If the wrong people are alerted to it you'll have only dug your grave."

John stared at her baffled, those were heavy words, threatening words. And yet Sherlock still looked unconcerned. "And from our conversation before I take it you would be the one to put me in said grave?" he asked looking to her, his eyes searching over every inch of her for a sign as to why though she was completely unreadable. All except the pack of cigarettes she pulled out, different from the pack she had earlier which meant she'd smoked all of those, and there were only five left in the one in her hand which meant she'd been smoking non stop. "You'll receive the order to kill me and without question you will obey," he said watching her do no more than raise her now lit cigarette to her mouth. "You're afraid of the consequence."

"W-what consequence?" John asked not knowing how Sherlock knew that, she'd said next to nothing.

But Sherlock wasn't listening, he was waiting for her to look at him, seeing the hint of fear that had always been in her eyes that he'd missed. "You care for Mycroft in whatever way you're capable, that's why you're here. You would be going against his orders, what he wants, to follow their orders," he said, not seeing any other emotion enter her eyes as she continued to stare back at him. "What would happen if you disobeyed?"

"Sherlock what are you?" John started before Sherlock interrupted.

"What would happen if you were ordered to kill me and didn't?"

She was quiet several seconds before she inhaled her fag and blew the smoke out. "I would be beaten within an inch of my life," she answered as unconcerned as though she'd told him the grass was green. "My bones would be reset, stitches given if I needed them, and then they'd throw me in a cell to sit in my pain for four days before they'd come back and start it all again," she tapped her cigarette over a cup's rim before sitting back. "Depending on the severity of my crimes I could be there anywhere from three months to twelve." She shrugged before taking another drag, inhaling as though she were breathing oxygen, sitting back on the couch and resumed staring straight ahead.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John, seeing his shocked face before turning back to her. "Chinese?" John asked quietly looking to Alice. "I'll go order it," he said more to himself than anyone else because neither Sherlock nor Alice had paid him any mind. "Anyone care, what they get?" He stood waiting for someone to answer him, but they both stayed silent: Sherlock staring at Alice and Alice staring at nothing. "Right," he nodded before going into the kitchen, running a hand over his face wondering what he was supposed to do with not one but two complicatedly fragile people.


	7. some of them left no trace at all

Neither Sherlock nor Alice had moved when John returned with the take-away, not even when he took the containers out of the bag. Sherlock was still staring at her, sitting back with his leg crossed over his knee and his hands folded against his mouth, and Alice still sitting straight and unmoving as she stared at the mantle in front of her.

"Here," he said offering what Sherlock normally ordered. He'd only guessed what Alice would want, having never had her over to eat before and knowing next to nothing about her anyway. He set the box and plastic fork on the table in front of her, stepping back when she didn't even blink.

Sherlock studied her unreadable face, completely void of any feeling. "Eat," he told her quietly, seeing in her cheeks the signs of not eating well. He grabbed her hand when she didn't move and forced her to take it. The moment he had touched her she'd turned to stare at him, and he released her and sat back wondering if John had been the one to do it she might have hurt him.

John and Sherlock sat eating quietly taking quick glances at Alice to see her chewing slowly. "I can feel you both looking at me," she said irritably after this went on for minutes, John swallowing wrong out of surprise and coughing as he averted his eyes. She waited until he stopped before putting her half eaten food on the table. "You have an interview tomorrow," she said casually as she sat back crossing her legs, looking more like any normal young woman one might meet sitting at a café. Only now both Sherlock and John knew better; she was anything but normal.

"Yes," he said wiping his mouth and wondering how she'd known that. As soon he began thinking of the cameras in the apartment and the tabs she kept close watch over on them, he stopped wondering.

"Do you feel there will be any pressing danger that would acquire my assistance?"

His brows rose in surprise. "No, no of course not," he told her quickly. She nodded pleased before standing. "Where are you going?" he asked.

She looked down at where he sat questioningly. "Do we have anything else to talk about?" she asked him. He stared up at her surprised before shaking his head. "I'll see you both tomorrow," she said before walking to the door.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. "I'll walk her to her flat," he said quickly before rushing after her, leaving John to sit alone startled speechless.

Alice was already across the street when he made it outside. He cut across the way and smiled before slipping through the door she'd left open for him. Rounding the stairs he nearly ran into her back before catching himself. He watched as she scanned every inch of the nearly vacant flat; he saw only a couch, coffee table and an ash tray, television, and a mattress against the wall with nothing but a thin sheet on it. This was only a temporary home, meant to sustain her as she did her job. He didn't have to go into the bedroom to know it was empty, everything she needed was in here. And with such little amount of personal items it made it very easy to know when someone had been there – which was what she was staring at.

Everything she had had been tilted to the right, the mattress was pulled off the wall, the table was off center as was the couch, even the television. Not to mention it was on, which it hadn't been when she left. It was only a matter of time, she knew that the moment she'd taken Moriarty in to Mycroft. "Stay in your flat for the rest of the night," she told him before searching her things for some kind of bug, taking several minutes longer than normal for the sake of being completely thorough.

Sherlock moved to stand in front of her television to see John throwing out their mess. There were several angles of the flat, some in the bedrooms, one in the bath, and several going from the kitchen to the den, and one aimed down the stairs to the door. He didn't understand how these had been there for three years and him not notice, he even knew from the angle of the view exactly where they were.

He turned to her when the screen blackened to see her staring at him. "Did you hear me, Sherlock?"

"You wish for me to remain in my flat for the remainder of the night," he repeated, staring hard at her now pale face. "Someone was here," he noted, looking around to find she had shifted everything a little to the left. "A message?" he asked curiously as he followed her to the stairs. "Is that my new coat?" he asked taking note of the large men's black coat hanging on the door.

Impatiently she grabbed it and swung it around him, dipping it low to catch his hands before pulling it up and over his shoulder. "Yes, I put a tracker in it," she explained as she fixed the lapels and smoothed the rest of it out over his chest. "I'm serious," she said locking her door behind him after they'd both stepped out, "I don't want anyone going out or in your home for the rest of the evening. I'll text you when I get back," she said walking him across the street and stopping at the bottom of the steps.

He looked down at her, taking note of just how small she was now when her face was pale and her large eyes were too worried to hide her fear. "Someone's after you," he said offhandedly, reading all the signs on her face; someone had been in her flat and moved everything just enough that she'd notice, but nothing threatening. And now she was leaving, he knew to speak with Mycroft, and she was tense.

"Something like that," she muttered before walking to her car, thinking if he only knew the person was really after him.

He was forced inside when he realized she wouldn't leave unless he was behind the door and it was locked. "What?" he asked when he went up and found John staring at him queerly.

"Did you wear that coat out?" he asked not remembering whether he had or not and leaning more towards that he hadn't.

Sherlock looked down at himself before slipping out of it and hanging it up, finding that when he breathed in he could smell the flowers from her lotion. He pressed the fabric to his nose and inhaled sharply. She was hiding something, not just the work she had done for the government because he had that just about figured out, but something else. Breathing deeper his nose caught the faint scent of cigarettes and he remembered seeing she'd smoked over a pack and a half in a day. His deduction when he first met her had been that she was an addict, and though he sometimes questioned it he knew he was right. What he didn't know was what craving she drowned in nicotine – he had many guesses, and none of them were remotely pleasant. Whatever it was, and whatever her past, it was beginning to affect her physically, though she still watched him closely as she'd been told.

John watched as Sherlock released his coat and walked to the mantle to get his skull. "What are you doing?" he asked when Sherlock lifted the skull and stared hard at it. John moved to the coat rack and sniffed at the coat wondering what had captured the other man's attention. He was horribly confused when he smelled Alice on it, smelled her lotion very clearly along the collar.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed startling John, finding the small camera drilled into the right socket of the skull – he would never have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it. In order to make sure her camera angles were unmoved she would've had to think about what he always put back in its place or didn't even touch at all. On the shower head in the bathroom, hanging on the curtain rod in both bedrooms, on his music stand. "Brilliant," he said again as he settled back onto a chair.

"What?" John asked staring at him strangely, not knowing what he'd been doing in the slightest.

"Alice," Sherlock answered shortly.

He looked at Sherlock curiously. "Alice is brilliant?" he asked, not used to him giving anyone any sort of credit when it came to intelligence.

Sherlock sat fidgety as he tapped his fingers against the chair. "She's more clever than you," he told him. "Don't take it like that," he said when John scoffed. "She knew it was a murder, she knew he was left handed and I didn't have to tell her anything for her to figure it out. Finally," he yelled excitedly, "someone who can think for themselves."

John stood behind him unsure of what to say, having never once heard Sherlock say anything about a woman as he was about Alice. "You also can't do that thing you do to everyone else," he said making Sherlock turn to him questioningly. "You can't read her."

Sherlock hummed and nodded before sitting straight once more. "She poses herself exactly, allowing the emotion necessary for the situation to enter into her eyes and yet she can turn it all off in a single blink. She's," he paused a moment as he thought, "perfect for me."

John's eyes widened almost comically, having never thought Sherlock was capable of saying anything of the sort about another person even if it wasn't in a romantic way. He opened his mouth like a pleading fish before giving up and sitting at his computer. After a few minutes of silence John turned to see Sherlock looking through what he had on the case; rolling his eyes to see that Alice had been no more than a passing thought.

…

Sherlock laid in his bed tapping his fingers together as he waited, feeling the muscles in his body twitching to get up and walk to the window to see if she was back. But he laid there impatiently waiting, his head occasionally turning to the window before he sighed and resumed staring at the ceiling. It wasn't until his eyes moved to look straight at the camera that she texted him she'd returned.

He didn't bother with anything more than tying a robe around him and putting on his slippers before he quietly left and cut across the dark street, listening as she walked down the stairs to unlock the door for him. "Shouldn't I have a key?" he asked stepping inside.

If she'd been anyone else she might have taken offense to his lack of greeting, but it was her and she didn't care for commonalities. "No," she answered as she walked back up the stairs. "I'm having the locks changed tomorrow, and the windows."

"New locks for the window?" he asked sardonically knowing that wouldn't make a difference.

She turned to him and gave him a look. "Windows that don't open," she told him, looking around her flat for anything different.

He nodded having figured that already but wanting her to say it none the less. "How's Mycroft?"

"Not happy with me," she said sighing as she sat on her sofa. And he wasn't, she'd blatantly accused him of being an idiot after she'd told him Moriarty had been in her flat – leaving her enough of a message so she'd know he was aware of her, a message that in all complete honesty had scared her.

Sherlock wanted to ask her who had broken in, wanted to know what Mycroft knew; but he could still feel her small hand firm and painful as she gripped his jaw and knew she wouldn't answer no matter how much he wanted her to. He looked at the television to see she'd been watching him, most likely having just returned. "Why the bathroom?" he asked when he saw that the camera angle was positioned to look into the shower as well as the window.

"That's the most common room people use to break into homes, or at least yours. I've taken out no less than four men trying to climb into that specific window," she said not even bothering to hide that she so obviously watched him day and night.

He looked at her after hearing her bland tone, watching her pull a cigarette from a newly opened pack – almost wanting to ask her for one. "You don't like watching John and I in the bathroom," he said, her tone having made it obvious so that he didn't have to ask. It was fascinating, the normal response to being allowed to watch two men including when they were nude should have been excitement or pleasure; yet she seemed to find it entirely unappealing, as he would if he'd been in her place.

She turned to him with a smirk curled on her mouth. "I didn't mind when it just you, you showered and came out. Not John," she explained letting the rest of the sentence hang.

He hummed his agreement as he moved to the kitchen, opening her fridge to see she had even less than he did. "He gets himself off in there," he commented moving to her pantry, finding a numerous amount of different kinds of alcohol and almost a hundred cartons of cigarettes; which she needed when she could blow through an entire pack on a stressful day. He then moved to the other rooms to find he was right when he'd deduced nothing would be in them. She was still sitting on the couch with her fag in hand uncaring that he was snooping. "Sleep on the couch," he said suddenly after several long moments of her silence.

"What?" she asked turning to him.

"You don't want to be here," he answered simply, "that much is obvious considering the surprise you found earlier. Come with me, sleep on the couch."

She stared at him a good minute, doing nothing but blinking with her hand poised to bring the cigarette to her mouth. Without saying anything she stood and pressed the fag into a mug she used as an ashtray, and Sherlock nodded before tramping down the stairs and out into the night.

…

The next morning John walked into the living room to find Sherlock sitting on the arm of a chair staring at the photographs he'd taken the day before; and much to his surprise, Alice sitting on the couch with a blanket folded on top of one of Sherlock's pillows as she too looked over the photos. "Did you sleep here, last night?" John asked confused and put off by seeing her first thing in the morning.

"I extended the invitation," Sherlock answered, only paying either of them mind because John's voice had interrupted his thoughts.

Alice looked at John and shrugged not bothered in the slightest. Though John moved slowly into the kitchen wondering why Sherlock had offered her to stay the night, or why she had agreed and was still there.

"Dr Watson," she said catching him before he left. "Good luck in your interview."

He smiled touched. "Thanks Alice," he said before leaving.

She moved to stand beside Sherlock, preparing to go to her home and change, and he sat looking over at her briefly knowing this was the moment when normal people exchanged thank you's and other niceties. But Alice wasn't normal, nor did she bother with any of that – one of the many reasons both Holmes brothers liked her. "Look in the news for a new murder and tell me when we're leaving," she told him quietly, the only way she knew how to genuinely say thank you, before going over to her flat to let the window people in.

Sherlock turned to her and watched her leave before grabbing his computer curiously and doing as she said. He found what she'd meant, seeing she'd figured out another link to the crime he was investigating on her own. "Brilliant," he muttered again.


	8. and some left her black and blue

Alice stood watching the men finish up the last window, thanking them briskly as she walked them out before turning on her television to find Sherlock hadn't moved from where she'd left him. They'd be leaving when John got back, she knew, so as she waited she gave her flat a more thorough sweep for any bugs and found none. Moriarty was smart enough not to, she'd be able to figure out where he'd gotten it from if he did – it's one thing she hated him about, his intelligence. It's why it'd taken her a while to catch him in the first place, he was good at eluding her. But a gun to the head and several blows to different parts of his body and she'd had him restrained. She hadn't even had to kill anyone, it'd been almost easy and she knew it wouldn't be this time.

"Talking to Detective Inspector Dimmock then going to Brian Lukis' home. Though you already knew that. Go there and see if you can't find a way in. S"

She read his text as she pulled on her coat and made for her car, catching Sherlock's eye before him and John climbed into their taxi. Her phone buzzed again and she looked down to see what he wanted now. "Don't waste time looking into Dimmock, just go to Lukis' house. We'll meet you there."

Rolling her eyes she started her car and pulled up the man's address, putting her Bluetooth in her ear to hear them both as she drove. She listened as Sherlock convinced the young detective to let him into the flat, pulling up to the home after they'd already started on their way. Her eyes trailed over the building, not seeing any way in besides the door – and the rather small windows that made skylights. Which she now knew the killer had used – which given the Chinese graphitti numbers and the acrobatics that would be needed in order to scale such buildings as the bank and two homes, she had an idea of who it was Sherlock was after; though he was still unaware, and it was not part of her job to inform him. Even then, staring irritably up at the building she would have to climb into, Mycroft would be miffed she was doing even this for Sherlock.

…

John looked over at Sherlock when his phone beeped, watching the corner of his mouth lift in a half smile. "Who was that?" he asked casually, Sherlock not one to smile at texts unless they told him something he wanted to know. But Sherlock had been acting strange lately, at least when it came to all things Alice Carroll.

And he was right. "Alice," Sherlock answered putting his phone away and staring out of the window stoically. "She says Mycroft doesn't pay her enough."

John stared at his window, his brows furrowed and his eyes wide and confused. "What made her say that?" he asked thickly, trying his best not to show his surprise.

"I asked her to find a way into the flat, I would assume it to be difficult from her text."

John turned to look at him curiously before shaking his head giving up; knowing he'd never understand Sherlock.

…

Alice could hear Sherlock, John, and the detective in the flat below them – knowing Sherlock was looking over everything and probably coming to the window that she couldn't actually reach. There had literally been no way to get to it, not even a ledge, so she'd broken into the building next door and climbed on their roof to find that she could jump to the one she wanted.

Sherlock looked out of the window and smiled. "Four floors up, that's why they think they're safe," he said. "Put a chain across the door bolt it shut, they think they're impregnable. They don't reckon for one second there's another way," he said searching for a window that could actually be climbed through because that particular one couldn't.

There was a soft thump from above causing them all to look up to the ceiling. "What was that?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled as his eyes trailed along the ceiling. "Another way in," he said more to himself as he moved to the hall.

Dimmock looked at Sherlock confused. "I don't understand," he said not following what all he was saying.

"We're dealing with a killer who can climb," he said moving around the messy flat to get to where he wanted to be, seeing a shadow briefly on the wall from someone outside and hearing a small tap.

The detective hadn't heard it, nor had he been meant to – the tap had been specifically for Sherlock so he'd know which one to go to. "What are you doing?" he asked, none of this being standard police work, and he was entirely confused.

Sherlock stood on the makeshift step to better get to the skylight, seeing a flash of brown hair before it moved back. "He clings to the wall like an insect," he said before unlatching the window and pushing it up, "that's how he got in."

"What?" Dimmock asked more confused now then before, he'd seen the building from outside and knew it should have been impossible.

But Sherlock was thinking of other ways, other buildings he'd taken note of and their close proximity. "He climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

"You're not serious," Dimmock said thinking him mad for suggesting such an impossibility. "Like Spiderman?"

Sherlock turned to him, barely noting the patronizing tone in the other man's voice. "He scaled six floors of an apartment building and jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon,"

"Hold on," Dimmock said thinking that to be a wild accusation that was highly unlikely.

But Sherlock continued as though he hadn't been interrupted because his proof was sitting right above him. "And of course that's how he got into the bank, he ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace," he said more excited now because he was staring at new information, and because he was right.

"How can you possibly know he used the skylight, there's a window in the living room?" Dimmock asked trying to find some hole in his theory.

Sherlock turned to him wondering how he could have missed it when it had been right in front of him. "There was no way to get to that window, above or below. And," he said thrusting the window up and surprising the detective and John when it didn't slam shut, "that's how she got in."

"Who?" Dimmock asked now completely confused because before Sherlock had been saying he – now there was a she to factor in.

"Are you coming in?" Sherlock called impatiently.

Dimmock stared at him as though he were insane, though John stood behind him almost smiling – he'd nearly forgotten Sherlock asked her to find a way in. "Am I allowed?"

"Who the bloody hell is that?" Dimmock said moving to look up at the window, seeing a young woman's face looking down at him unconcerned.

Sherlock turned to him. "Is she allowed in?" he asked, remembering this was a crime scene and she might not be. But the detective shrugged too shocked to answer before standing back and watching her slide through.

If Sherlock had been any other man John figured he might have been affected by how close he and Alice were, him having grabbed her waist and lowered her to the floor – but neither of them seemed to even notice that seconds before their hips had slid along each other – instead Sherlock was closing the skylight and Alice was looking at the messy floor unhappily. "Is that how you did it?" he asked looking down at her.

"Actually," she said amused, "I broke into the couple's home over there and jumped on the roof," she admitted watching him smile briefly as he shook his head. "I'm not an acrobat," she told him hoping it might jog something in his brain, only he wasn't listening to her anymore and she rolled her eyes because she'd practically just given it away.

"We have to find out what connects these two men," he said looking around him.

Alice moved passed him and down the stairs. "How did it go?" she asked stopping by John, watching as his brows rose in surprise before he smiled.

"It went well," he said forcing himself not to slip up like he had with Sherock, knowing Alice would look into Sarah.

"Good," she said turning away and going to the door.

"Nice to meet you," Dimmock called still unable to believe she'd been on the roof the whole time – and even more that she'd gotten up there in the first place.

She smiled as she left, almost as amused by the detective inspector as much as she did Lestrade. As John and Sherlock went to the library, which she tracked them on her phone, she went to a hardware store in search of new doorknobs and after a few minutes of looking at the different kinds began thinking of getting a new door with four different locks – but before she could decide anything Sherlock texted her and asked her to meet him at his flat.

She glanced curiously at the black car with the tinted windows sitting outside of her flat, and then at her door to see it had been replaced.

John looked out of the window when he saw Alice and he watched curiously as she went in her flat, and then after no less then five minutes as she came back – Mycroft close behind her holding up what John thought was keys.

"I had them colored so you could tell them apart," he told her, not quite so upset with her as he'd been the night before. "From top to bottom it goes blue, white, red, and then the normal key is for the main lock when you take a quick step out so you don't have to lock them all."

She looked up at him wondering why he was being nice when he'd been angry before, knowing that meant he wanted something. "Thank you," she said reaching for the keys, unsurprised when he pulled them away first.

"I will want him captured again," he said knowing she was capable of doing it.

However, willingness was an entire other matter. "It won't be me to do it," she told him, wanting never again to see Jim Moriarty.

Mycroft nodded having thought she might refuse, remembering how long it had taken to convince her not to kill Moriarty the first time. "Thought as much," he said handing her the keys. "I have made arrangements with a man, who says given Moriarty's prior encounter with you he will be more prepared and not quite so easy to obtain."

"Which means it'll take a while," she finished, not happy knowing the man would be free longer than he should be. "Who did you hire?"

Mycroft smiled. "An old friend of yours," he told her, making her realize why he was being nice; he knew she wouldn't like someone she used to work with so close to Sherlock. "Perhaps he could even help you look after Dr Watson and my brother."

She looked at him appalled he would even think of such a thing, and then she knew who it was he had hired – it would have to be someone he could trust, which left one man; the man who'd taken her to Mycroft over four years ago. "Thomas?" she asked, wondering why she hadn't seen him yet if Mycroft had hired him.

But Mycroft smiled before bidding her a good day and walking to his car. "Oh and Alice," he called from out of the window, catching her before she walked across the street, "do try to stop helping him. You know I don't approve of what he has chosen to do with his time."

She nodded before watching him go, realizing then why he'd told her of Thomas; if Sherlock was her assignment, she was Thomas'. Which meant that Mycroft was taking Moriarty more seriously than he'd let on, and it also meant that Thomas had been watching her for some time now, accounting for how he knew she'd been helping Sherlock; and she'd mistaken it for Moriarty.

"What was Mycroft doing in your flat?" John asked when she made it up the stairs, causing Sherlock to turn and look at her waiting for an answer.

She sat down on the couch sighing. "He had my locks changed," she answered, seeing Sherlock's curious stare before he turned away.

He did not like that Mycroft was close to her, it forced him to remember that it was to his brother her loyalties lay – so he turned back to his case. "What do you make of these markings?" he asked, thinking she must have some insight.

"Nothing," she answered without missing a beat, watching as he swiveled to look at her once more.

He looked at her closely, seeing the lack of emotion in her eyes and knowing she was suppressing something. "That was a lie," he said, his eyes narrowing yet catching not even a glimmer of feeling on her face. "Why won't you tell me?"

John looked between the two – Sherlock's unhappy face and Alice's unconcerned one – wondering if he'd missed something since the two had been fairly amiable earlier.

"Mycroft's orders," she told him, watching him as he growled and turned back to the photographs; her presence there now unneeded.

Which is what Sherlock had been thinking. "You can leave, you're useless now," he said not realizing how callous it sounded.

John planned to force Sherlock to apologize, to remind him that Alice was still very helpful; but he was beaten to it. "Then you can climb into the next building," she informed him.

He turned to her wonderingly. "You just said you wouldn't help me," he reminded her, watching as she nodded. "But you also implied that you would still help me," he said and she nodded again. He pondered that a moment before turning away from her again, finding her more confusing and unable to read than any other person he'd met.

* * *

**_So Thomas will be important for later, like the beginning of second season's episode - and he's also an original character, who I have taken to picturing as looking like Richard Armitage. He'll give more insight into the kind of person Alice is, as well as answer Sherlock and John's questions about her that she won't answer. So I'm kind of excited to get to him._**


	9. she come alive when she's dying

Alice looked up from one of Sherlock's books when the front door slammed and John came in visibly angry.

"You've been awhile," Sherlock said uncaring, his eyes trained on the page of a book.

She saw that this did nothing but fuel John's irritation. "Yeah well you know how it is, custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried," he said smiling as he clenched his fists. "Just formalities; fingerprints, charge sheets. And I've gotta be in Magistrates' court on Tuesday."

"What?" Sherlock asked, still not actually paying attention.

Alice already had her phone in hand and was texting Mycroft when John finally raised his voice. "Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO," he said beyond infuriated with the man, who still didn't even glance his way.

"Good, fine."

John could do nothing more turn away from him rolling his eyes, his gaze settling on Alice. "Well you can tell your pal he's welcome to go and help out any time," he muttered knowing Sherlock still wasn't listening, waiting for Alice to look up at him. "Where were you?" he asked when she finally did.

"Don't worry about it," she said simply as she pocketed her phone, standing because she knew Sherlock had been waiting for John to come back and help him.

John's stare turned appalled. "Don't worry about it?" he demanded. "Aren't you the one being paid a sum to watch us?" He stood waiting for an answer, the anger melting from him as she looked at him coldly.

"Do not worry about going into court, or your ASBO, I just had it handled," she told him, her tone as frigid as her gaze.

He swallowed as he averted his eyes, finding himself very wary of her in that moment when she looked so lethal. And he was right to be, she was entirely unhappy with him – she'd done her job in keeping them both safe, she'd done it well. Yet there he was thinking he had the audacity to question her; but she took a breath and stood, giving him a small smile as Mycroft would have – as Mycroft had trained her in the art of being unaffected by others – and she bid him a good day before Sherlock could turn and see she was leaving and demand her help.

The sound of her heavy feet tromping down the stairs, as well as the doorframe rattling from the force of the door, let John know he was not forgiven. She didn't care. These were the days she loathed them the most, when both men thought they were entitled to her time and resources – as they were the only thing that mattered to her. True, they should be the only things she spent her time on; Mycroft paid her a handsome sum to watch them endlessly, but that didn't mean she was happy they thought she would do whatever they needed the moment they needed it.

Most of the morning she'd spent trying to track down Thomas, almost wishing Mycroft hadn't told her about him. But she knew the things he was capable of, how right and wrong were not always given conscious thought in the face of something they greatly wanted. She'd come very close, catching a glimpse of his dark hair speeding away in a car. And she knew she wouldn't again, not unless he wanted her to find him.

Which left her to sit in her flat monitoring Sherlock's whereabouts on her computer and John's on her phone, her Bluetooth on the table and her not in the mood to listen to either of them. She thought of all the places Thomas would be that would allow him to not only track Moriarty, who probably was not currently in London because he most likely knew there was someone after him, but as well as watch her and still be able to elude her. There weren't many answers, actually the problem was that there were too many and she'd never find him unless he slipped up – which she knew him enough to know he never did. She didn't trust him, at least not when it came to Sherlock – what with Thomas trying to find Moriarty. Moriarty had offered her quite a deal, for Mycroft's head – she hadn't taken it, what she didn't know was whether Thomas would if given the same deal or one that involved killing Sherlock.

She was broken from her thoughts when her phone buzzed and she looked at it to see what Sherlock wanted.

"How long have you known they were numbers?"

She smiled as she imagined how irritated his face was at that moment, faced with her having known before him. "When I saw them in Van Coon's apartment," she wrote him back, seeing very clearly the way he'd nearly growl.

"What was the number on the picture, the dash is 1 what's the other?"

It was a moment before she decided to tell him, her thumb hovering over the keypad before a thought crossed her mind. She turned her phone over and removed the battery to find a tracker beneath; Thomas had been watching her a lot longer than she'd thought. "15," she texted him quickly after removing the bug. She then did the same to her other phone, the one tracking John, and then her computer, and then around the back of the television – finding bugs in them all. If her hands had been stronger she would have shattered the phone from how tightly she grasped it, nearly shaking with fear and rage.

"Hello?" John answered when she called.

"Put the phone on the table and give it to Sherlock in a manner that you would be unseen," she said without any greeting, he knew her number and she had no time for pleasantries.

"What?" Sherlock's voice said moments later causing her to release a breath.

"I want you to quickly look around you for a man with dark hair and a sharp nose," she ordered him, praying he was doing so because there wasn't much time before Thomas left.

"Are you sure I will know him when I see him?" Sherlock asked as he did what she'd told him, scanning the restaurant before turning to the streets – knowing from her frantic tone this was not a time disregard what she said.

She sighed impatiently as she paced the floor. "Yes, his nose is long and sharp and his face handsome. Look for any cars that are making a hasty exit."

"Blue car?" he asked, seeing a dark haired man making a sharp turn before he drove off. He could hear Alice's growl of what sounded to be intense frustration, but on the phone he couldn't quite tell. "Alice?" he asked concerned over who the man had been, as well why she was so troubled.

"What's wrong with her?" John mouthed across the table, to which Sherlock could only shrug.

Her mind was moving a mile a second, thinking of why Thomas wanted to know where she was as well as her charges – because Mycroft would not have asked for it without telling her first – but not only that but Thomas was looking for Moriarty. It was then she realized why Thomas had placed bugs on her own trackers – his job overlapped with hers.

"Where are you going next?" Alice finally asked, running a hand through her hair realizing Thomas had been watching where she was going as well as Sherlock and John because Moriarty was after Sherlock Holmes, and of course it had everything to do with this damned case. She listened as Sherlock began to rattle off what he and John had found and the ways the two dead men were connected, believing one of them to have stolen something. "Yes I know all that already, I had an assignment in Asia to take out an underground man with too much information. Where the bloody hell are you going?"

Sherlock held the phone to his ear silently as he processed her words, seeing in her extreme anxiety that she hadn't thought of what she was saying – he knew now exactly what she'd done for the government, it made her the most dangerous person he knew. Instead of thinking on that longer his eyes found a flat and a rain-protected phonebook on the step. "Tell me, when was the last time it rained?" he asked as he stood, rattling off the current address. "The flat across the street, the one with the yellow pages on the step," he said as he hung up on her and cut across the way.

Alice was already out the door, not caring to grab her jacket only her car keys, before she broke nearly every traffic violation to get to him and John as quickly as she could.

After ringing the bell and yelling to Sherlock to let him in, John took a moment to turn and breathe irritably, catching sight of Alice's car and her small figure darting around the back of the building glancing at him only briefly to see Sherlock hadn't let him in. "Hello to you too Alice, wonderful weather we're having," he muttered as he rang the bell some more, "thank you for coming, I'm sure you have much better things to do than wait for Sherlock to open the door," he said yelling the last bit through the mail slot.

The sight Alice was met with when she found her way up the fire escape was a short man strangling Sherlock, and Sherlock slowly wilting to the floor as he fought to breathe. So focused was the Asian man on Sherlock he didn't notice the woman moving silently behind him, at least not until she grabbed him and threw him against a wall.

It was a few moments of nothing but blackness before Sherlock could see, and even better could breathe – and that first breath, as cold as snow, was almost the greatest feeling he'd ever had. He coughed as he looked around him, seeing Alice's small body moving quicker than he could follow as she blocked the man's fists and kicks – giving her own quick precise hits before having to her protect herself again. This man was skilled, fast and agile – she could barely hit him once before he was already attacking.

The man sacrificed himself to a moment of pain for the sake of getting away, and when she landed a blow to his middle his hands were pushing her and slamming her head into the wall before he lunged for the window and ran.

She might have followed, had it in mind to run after him and kill him – but a small cough made her turn to see Sherlock trying to stand, her mind cleared as she was reminded of why she'd come here in the first place and she grabbed his arms and helped him up. "You should go," she said as she loosened his scarf and smoothed out his coat, "I'll erase us being here.

If Sherlock could've spoken in that moment he would have told her not to, but he knew her prints could not be found if anything were to happen to the man – whether or not she'd been directly involved. So he grabbed a tissue and pressed it to her nose, watching her brows knit together before she pulled it away to see she was bleeding.

"Go," she told him again when he coughed once more, hearing John still peeved outside none the wiser to what had just happened. She waited until he was out the door with John before she turned back to the flat, seeing the blood from her aching nose on the wall, as well as the mess they'd all created – she'd be there most of the night, the lengthiest process she knew would be finding both hers and Sherlock's hairs; it also meant erasing the actual killer, but Sherlock was right in that she could not be tied to that man should he disappear.

She'd kept her phone in hand as she worked, her Bluetooth in her ear to hear them, and breathed relieved that they would not find anymore danger that night. And she was even happier when Sherlock texted her to come over, sending her from John's phone a picture of more numbers.

Sherlock waited impatiently as Alice searched through their flat, taking longer than he had the will to behave for as she scoured every inch – returning to both him and John with five small tracking devices. He knew they were not hers, hers were not nearly as advanced which meant the ones in her hand came from within a government faction – which he had figured to be the dark haired man she'd fretted over earlier. "What numbers are these?" he asked, hoping to put her steeled spine at ease enough not to yell at him and leave when he asked what he really wanted to know.

She looked at him incredulously. "Couldn't you just look them up?"

"He did," John told her, having been confused on why Sherlock had asked her that. "He's got them all up on his computer."

Alice moved to where John sat and saw sure enough that all of the numbers were on the site he'd found. "Thank you John," Sherlock said snidely, his eyes on the photographs though his mind wasn't. "The dark haired man, who is he?"

"What dark haired man?" John asked, though he quickly realized he was not being listened to, instead Sherlock was awaiting her answer and she was staring hard the back of Sherlock's head.

"An old friend," she answered, watching him turn to inspect her closely – he was too smart to believe that.

And he was, he realized then the man was someone she used to work with; he did not like that the man had put trackers in his things, only Alice was allowed because she was his. "A former colleague," he mused, seeing her slight nod. "He was also an assassin then."

"Sherlock," John cried outraged. "Forgive him his insane ideas," he said to Alice, seeing the softest look in her eye that had ever been there.

He thought too highly of her, and it almost pained her that she had to tell him the truth. "I do not deserve you Dr Watson," she told him quietly, seeing his eyes widen in surprised confusion. "He is right, and he still is," she said turning to Sherlock – ready to leave them both so she could sit quietly in her flat without their eyes staring holes into her. "I don't know yet if he poses a threat to either of you, but for the time being assume he does." She gave Sherlock a small nod before leaving, a cigarette already in her hand and lit by the time she reached her building, not hearing the lock click when she unlocked the first bolt. "Thomas?" she called from the in the doorway, prepared to reach for her gun and charge the stairs if he didn't answer.

He didn't answer though, but she heard his footsteps as he walked to the top of the stairs; his handsome face lit from behind by the light he'd turned on. "Hello Alice," he greeted warmly, the same arrogant smirk on his lips as the day he'd left her. "I think it's time we talked."

…

Sherlock stood staring at the spot Alice had disappeared, weighing whether or not to follow her when she may or may not welcome his company. She looked more tired than usual, worn completely thin and he could tell she wasn't eating – what he didn't know was who this man really was to her, and if she truly thought him to be a threat, because he honestly didn't think she did. "I'll go see she is alright," he said finally, several minutes after she left.

He didn't like that her door was unlocked, it made it easier for him to go up and see her but as of late she'd kept all four bolts locked while she was here and away. And so he crept up the steps as quickly as he could, planning to see what she was doing before he called out to her. The sight he was met with was her staring up at a tall man with a sharp nose and black hair – his long body towering over her smaller one, though there was no hostility. In fact, Sherlock thought this was the most intimate he had ever seen her – and he didn't know why that seemed to bother him. "What is he doing here?" he asked, knowing they were both aware he was there, the television was on showing John alone in the flat.

"Leaving," she answered, her eyes trapped on Thomas' face.

He smiled down at her, brushing the hair behind her ear before stepping back. "I'll pick you up at five, wear the dress," he told her before leaving.

He hadn't given Sherlock the slightest bit of acknowledgement, nor did Sherlock really care. He'd seen the bag hanging on the door handle, having wondered briefly what it was for; now he knew she was having dinner with Mycroft, which meant that the man was also working with his brother. "Who is he?" he asked, keeping his distance as Alice lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

"Thomas," she answered after a moment. "You should trust him."

He stared hard at her face, now void of any and all emotion as it hadn't been when Thomas was here. "He must've said something to win you over when only minutes before you told me to do the opposite," he told her, finding himself growing uncomfortable and not at all understanding.

"He said enough."

He waited for more, because normal people would give more – would justify themselves and their actions. Alice wasn't normal, nor did she care to defend herself; it was what he liked and hated about her. She was intriguing and infuriating all at the same time, jumbled into one impossible woman. "He would never side against you," he said after a while, having seen that truth written on the man's face. He loved her, loved her in a way she was not capable – though that did not mean she did not accept it, or enjoy it. What Sherlock had walked into was something very warm, something very familiar.

Alice was hardly thinking of Thomas anymore, at least not really – what she was wondering was what exactly Moriarty planned to do when he got his hands on Sherlock; whether she should accept Thomas' offer to help capture him. If she did she would kill Moriarty the moment he was in sight, which is what Mycroft didn't want. However, her job was to keep Sherlock safe – she'd willingly get herself put in the cage for surpassing her number of kills. Which is what Thomas was currently telling Mycroft as he drove off.

* * *

**_Apparently Thomas has come in before I said he would, however I think next chapter will probably be the last one he's in before the first episode of season 2 - he might be mentioned though. So now I've said Alice is a trained assassin for the british government - which means I can tell you all where I got the idea for her. I got this idea one night while watching Scandal, if anyone got that then I love you cause I adore the show. Hope you guys are still enjoying, and as always thank you for reading._**


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